


Draw Your Swords

by bonesmctightass



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alcohol, Anal Sex, Angst, Avoidance, Closet Sex, First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oblivious, Pining, Quickies, Sexual Guidance, Slow Burn, Smut, Song Lyrics, Unrequited Love, Virgin Spock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-19 04:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8189713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonesmctightass/pseuds/bonesmctightass
Summary: Sometimes being honest just isn't worth the risk. But if they play their cards right, the problem might just resolve itself.





	1. McCoy's POV

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a song entitled Draw Your Swords by Angus and Julia Stone.

McCoy stares hard at his drink, then pulls ineffectually at his dress uniform. He and his fellow officers are guests at a diplomatic soiree hosted by the Federation, none of whom have any particular interest in this sort of thing. Jim, he’s great at mingling. This party atmosphere is just his style, apart from the stuffy ambassadors, of course. No, it’s the ladies he likes. McCoy, he likes the abundance of alcohol and the cover of bodies milling about the ballroom. This sort of setting lends itself to people watching. Or rather, person watching. With all of the commotion he’s free to openly observe a certain Starfleet officer without arousing suspicion.

 

He takes another swig of his drink, blue eyes settling on Spock’s form from across the room. The Vulcan is currently being engaged in a conversation with an Aenar. About the variances between their species’ telepathic abilities, no doubt. Or maybe they’re exchanging chess strategies, McCoy thinks humorously. Whatever it is, Spock looks like he’s enjoying himself thoroughly. The barest hints of a smile ghosts over his delicate features. When the Aenar says something particularly thought-provoking, Spock’s brows arch up onto his forehead and he inclines his head with interest and leans forward just so. The action is subtle but McCoy can see it, even from the other end of the room.

 

 _See you come down through the clouds. I feel like a fool. I ain’t got nothin’ left to give. Nothing to lose._  

 

Being so caught up in the display of unguarded passion, McCoy fails to look away and Spock tilts his head. Their eyes meet and McCoy forgets how to breathe. His brain short circuits and the only thing running through his mind is an endless loop of _he’s looking at me, he’s looking at me._ And then Spock raises a curious brow and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a faint smile. In a split second his face reverts to its impassive taciturn expression and he returns his attention to the Aenar. If McCoy had even blinked he would have missed it. Fuck.  

 

_So come on, love. Draw your swords. Shoot me to the ground. You are mine, I am yours. Let’s not fuck around._

With a determined scowl, McCoy knocks back the rest of his drink and leaves the table. He wouldn’t dare attempt to steal another look, not with Spock onto him. And with the accuracy of a bloodhound, no less. He's angry with himself. If only he’d been more careful, he could have gotten away with stolen glances and friendly conversation.

The room is alight with the sounds of merriment. McCoy takes advantage of the chaos and files through the mass of bodies, plucking a glass of something purple from a tray on his way out. If his night was going to end so abruptly, may as well go out with a bang. Or, more accurately, an alcohol induced coma.

The swanky hotel the Federation has poured a considerable amount of money into is a short walk from the venue of the festivities. San Francisco’s nightlife is as lively as the party McCoy had just escaped. Bright lights illuminate the streets and he has to squint just to keep from getting blinded by the neon. McCoy enters the building, swallowing the burning liquid down before he even reaches the elevator. A pleasant, numbing sort of warmth settles over him and he allows himself to relax. The second he enters the room he sheds his uniform and slides over to the wall mounted communicator to order a bottle of their best booze. He drops onto his bed and wonders where he went wrong.

_‘Cause you are the only one. You are the only one._

Spock invades his thoughts again, claws his way through McCoy’s consciousness and demands attention. McCoy gladly gives it. His mind drifts to the intensity of those dark, soul piercing eyes. When they look at him he fears they can see his thoughts and penetrate his heart. McCoy gets caught in that demanding gaze and he feels like he’s being slowly, systematically, disassembled. He would joyfully allow it. Ask for it, even, if he wasn’t so paralyzed by fear.

A sudden knocking at the door jerks him out of his thoughts. Must be his booze, McCoy thinks with relief. Just in time. The images his mind was conjuring were getting a little _too_ intense. He rises from the bed and ambles over to the door.

“You’re not room service,” he says flatly when he is met with the sight of Spock.

His house guest stares at him with an unreadable expression.

“Obviously,” Spock replies levelly before extending his hand. McCoy drops his gaze to the familiar length of fabric clutched in elegant fingers. “You neglected to remember your jacket. As I was on my way back from the event, I thought it prudent to return it to you.”

“All partied out?” McCoy muses teasingly as he leans against the doorframe. The querie earns him a raised eyebrow. 

“I simply tired of the social interaction.”

“And yet here you are, talking to me.” Maybe Spock didn't have anything better to do, McCoy thinks with false hope.

“Despite our frequent quarrelling I find your company quite agreeable, doctor.”

McCoy swallows thickly and his heart skips several beats. Hell, he could’ve gone into cardiac arrest from that comment alone. Pull yourself together, Leonard. He steels himself and steps aside, intensely aware of the way Spock’s eyes are roving over his bare skin with an expression that can only be described as curiosity. Being the one under examination is certainly an unfamiliar commodity. “Well come in, then. Have a drink with me.”

He makes the request lightly, figuring such a thing would offend his delicate Vulcan sensibilities. 

“As you are well aware, I am immune to the effects of alcohol. I find its recreational consumption to be entirely illogical,” Spock protests but enters the room in open acceptance of the invitation, much to McCoys surprise. A bottle of brandy arrives shortly after.

For lack of a better place, the two men settle on the floor across from one another and crack open the bottle in amiable silence. Spock is still nursing his first glass by the time McCoy has finished three.

The warmth in McCoy’s stomach burns hotter. He feels the flames licking at his insides, melting him from the inside out while Spock’s steady gaze makes him sweat. It makes his skin prickle and tingle like an itch he can’t scratch. If only he knew what Spock was thinking.

_I see them snakes come through the ground and choke me to the bone. They tie me to the wooden chair. Here are all my songs._

“Spock.” He can’t escape the scrutiny, even if he looks away. But he doesn't want to. He'd happily drown in the endless darkness of Spock's eyes, which rival the beauty and mystery of space. McCoy fights the urge to blink.

A raised eyebrow is his only reply.

He drops his gaze to the empty glass and tries to calm the sea of thoughts crashing against his consciousness. He wants to say _something_ but can’t seem to find the words. Those eyes are fixed on him again; he can feel them boring into him. McCoy’s heart is pounding in his chest for reasons he’s not quite sure of.

 

“Thanks for the jacket,” he finishes lamely, exhaling as he does it as if that is going to lessen the weight of his heavy heart.

 

_Come on, love. Draw your swords. Shoot me to the ground. You are mine, and I am yours. Let’s not fuck around._

 

“Do not mention it, Leonard,” Spock intones politely as he sets his glass on the floor in front of him. Jim must be rubbing off on him, McCoy thinks idly at the implemented colloquialism.

 

The way Spock says his name is like a breath of fresh air. McCoy takes it in, catalogues the way the syllables sound on the Vulcan’s tongue and commits it to memory as if he’ll never hear it again. Spock stands and McCoy almost outstretches a hand to stop him. Just as his arm begins to move of its own accord, he forces his brain to override the action and instead gets to his feet as well.

 

“It is getting quite late. I must return to my room to meditate.”

 

McCoy opens his mouth to speak again. Don’t go, he wants to say. Stay here a while. “All right. See you in the dining hall for breakfast,” he grits out instead and hopes it doesn’t sound forced. For a long moment the two gaze at each other, unmoving. McCoy thinks he sees a flicker of something undeniably human in Spock’s eyes; _pain_.    

 

_‘Cause you are the only one._

 

Spock breaks the spell and nods in reply. McCoy watches helplessly as he exits the room, left alone to wallow in his unrequited affections with his half empty bottle of liquor.

 

 _The only one._  


	2. Spock's POV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock struggles with desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by 3 Libras by A Perfect Circle

The ballroom is much too crowded. Spock is trying desperately to filter out the excessive noise emanating from the overzealous patrons of the diplomatic function. The unmistakable scent of alcohol burns his nostrils and he finds it nearly impossible to escape the presence of ambassadors with liquor seeping from their pores. Just when he is about to attempt to locate the irascible doctor, he finds himself cornered by an Aenar. He breathes an indiscernible sigh as she questions him about the inner workings of Vulcan mind melds. Engaging in conversation, however fascinating, was not part of his plans for the evening. His eyes flit about the room with purpose as he explains the mechanics of it. In spite of himself, Spock becomes engrossed in the Aenar’s description of her species’ telepathic abilities and contemplates the contrast between them.

 

A nagging sensation that he is being observed distracts him and he chances a glance in the direction of the burning gaze. His eyes settle quickly on McCoy. The second their eyes meet Spock is overcome by a flood of affection. How nice it would be if they could sit together in a quiet location, simply basking in the presence of the other. If he could just steal a small touch… McCoy’s stare has crashed through his defenses. Spock slams the door on the intrusive thoughts with the horrified realization that he has allowed himself to show his emotions on his face so freely. He sets his jaw and returns his attention to the Aenar, hoping she has not noticed his lapse in attentiveness.

 

_Threw you the obvious and you flew with it on your back. A name in your recollection, down among a million same._

 

Again his thoughts begin to drift, despite his best efforts. Why was McCoy looking at him so intensely? Perhaps the doctor’s determined show of animosity is not merely a ploy and the man does truly detest him. Spock steels himself and stares blankly at the Aenar. No, he will not accept that. He must know for sure. There must be a way to obtain the answers he seeks. Spock spares another glimpse at the table where McCoy was sitting and startles when the man has disappeared. He’s left his jacket behind in his haste to leave. An unwarranted sinking feeling consumes him as he wonders if he was the cause of McCoy’s state of unrest.

 

_Difficult not to feel a little bit disappointed, and passed over. When I look right through, see you naked but oblivious. And you don’t see me._

 

Spock resolves to excuse himself and swiftly plucks the clothing hanging haphazardly from the chair as he passes. The air outside is cold and unforgiving to his warmer Vulcan temperature but he pays no mind to it as he traces McCoy’s footsteps back to their lodging. As he reaches the lobby the creeping realization that he has once again let his emotions dictate his actions grinds his brain to a screeching halt.

 

_But I threw you the obvious just to see if there’s more behind the eyes of a fallen angel, eyes of a tragedy._

 

Standing obstructively in the center of the entrance, he grips the jacket in his hand firmly and gathers his wits about him. Spock has unwittingly committed himself to this action. He must follow through, if only to steal a few moments alone with McCoy before returning to his room for intense meditation. Soon he finds himself standing in front of the doctor’s room and he is knocking before he can rethink this plan. He is not prepared for the sight that greets him.

 

“You’re not room service.” McCoy is mostly bare, save for the regulation briefs hugging his groin in the most aesthetically pleasing manner. Spock is staring, greedily drinking up the sight. Every muscle, every scar, every hair. He memorizes it knowing he will unlikely be privy to such a breathtaking sight ever again.

 

_Here I am expecting just a little bit too much from the wounded. But I see through it all, see you._

 

He forgets to reply in his haste to scrutinize the skin deliciously bared to him. “Obviously,” Spock intones, a bit delayed, then extends his hand. “You neglected to remember your jacket. As I was on my way back from the event, I thought it prudent to return it to you.”

 

“All partied out?” McCoy is leaning against the doorframe, now. Spock resists the urge to reach out and touch him. He keeps his hands firmly at his sides.

 

“I simply tired of the social interaction,” he lies, face impassive.

 

“And yet here you are, talking to me.”

 

The words come out before he can stop them. “Despite our frequent quarreling I find your company quite agreeable, doctor.”

 

_‘Cause I threw you the obvious to see what occurs behind the eyes of a fallen angel, eyes of a tragedy._

 

McCoy seems startled by the confession. No, perhaps not startled. A pink flush colors his cheeks and creeps down his neck. “Well come in, then. Have a drink with me.” He is walking further into the room before Spock can inspect it further.

 

_Oh well. Apparently nothing._

 

“As you are well aware, I am immune to the effects of alcohol. I find its recreational consumption to be entirely illogical.” Spock knows he should leave, but finds that he would like to examine the cause of such an odd reaction. He enters the room against his better judgement.

 

The silence that settles over them as they enjoy their drinks is quite comfortable. Spock cannot find it within himself to tear his eyes away from McCoy. Everything the man is draws him in, crushes him in a vice grip. Spock hangs on every breath, revels in every small movement, the flutter of eyelashes, the way his throat works as he swallows the burning liquid.   

 

“Spock.”

 

McCoy’s voice draws him away from his thoughts. He looks like he wants to say something, like he is grappling with something. The express on his face shows an emotion Spock can't quite identify. He holds his breath and waits eagerly.

 

“Thanks for the jacket.”

 

Spock isn't sure what he was expecting. 

 

_Apparently nothing at all._

 

“Do not mention it, Leonard.” Spock’s calm tone betrays the tumultuous emotions fighting for dominance deep inside of him. Every urge is clawing their way to the surface, every illogical, carnal desire screams for release. He sets down his drink, still unfinished, and stands abruptly.

 

_You don’t see me._

 

“It is getting quite late. I must return to my room to meditate.” An indescribable pain thrashes against the forefront of his mind. He knows he must escape the situation before he loses control. As they stand face to face for a long stretch of time he finds himself rooted to the spot.

 

“All right. See you in the dining hall for breakfast,” McCoy says, though Spock is only distantly aware of the words. He forces his legs to move and doesn’t look back until he hears the door shut behind him.

  
_You don’t see me at all._


	3. Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spock sees an opening and he takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one to build the unbearable anticipation of what is to come. I promise it'll all be worth it.

McCoy wakes the next morning with the mother of all headaches. Pushing himself into a sitting position, he glares despondently at the empty bottle of brandy resting innocently on the carpet beside the spot where he passed out the night before. “This is your fault,” he groans as he shoves the liquor away from him. Spock’s fault, he amends quickly. Oblivious green-blooded bastard. 

A few doors down, Spock is having a similarly disconsolate morning. Meditation did nothing to calm his mind, though it did seem to quell his desires. For how long, he couldn’t be sure. He sits atop his bed and stares blankly at the far wall, deep in rumination. Or perhaps brooding would be a more accurate description.

As luck would have it, both men emerge from their rooms simultaneously. Their eyes meet and Spock stiffens imperceptibly, taken aback by the emotions swimming in those impossibly blue eyes. McCoy wants to look away, but finds he doesn’t have the strength. His methods of avoidance are steadily failing him. Fortunately, the pounding in his head gives him something to think about.

 

“Morning, Spock.”  

 

“Good morning, Doctor.” 

 

Without thinking McCoy sighs softly at the title, wishing Spock would just say his name again. Spock picks up on the subtle exhale and quirks a curious brow. He knows he shouldn’t pry, but his vocal cords don’t seem to want to cooperate with him. 

“What is troubling you?” He asks, not sure he even wants to hear the answer. McCoy looks stricken for a moment and fumbles for words.

“Drank too much,” he mumbles, waving a dismissive hand. “Got one hell of a headache.” 

Spock sees the opportunity and takes a very calculated risk. Yes, this will be his way in. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”

McCoy tilts his head to the side and crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh, you’re going to doctor me for a change? Well unless you’ve got a hypo on you I think I’m shit out of luck.” Then Spock takes a few measured steps towards him and McCoy inwardly panics, the urge to flee rising. His face remains unimpressed, trying to maintain a semblance of normalcy to chase away the unbearable awkwardness of the situation. 

 

“If you are agreeable, I can suppress the pain receptors in your brain.”

 

“You mean, like turn off my headache.” McCoy imparts slowly.

 

“A rudimentary assessment, but yes. That is essentially correct.”

 

No, this is a bad idea. He knows he shouldn’t let Spock touch him, knows exactly what those probing fingers are going to find in the recesses of his mind and he is downright  _ terrified _ . But damn does he want to feel those hands on him just once. 

Spock watches despondently as McCoy shakes his head and declines the invitation. “A little suffering is good for the soul.” He says it with a grin as he rocks on the balls of his feet, the very picture of unbridled passion. Spock yearns for that brand of freedom, craves McCoy’s unrestrained expression.

“Very well,” Spock replies good naturedly and clasps his hands behind his back. “Perhaps we should join the others for our morning meal.” 

Relieved, McCoy nods and falls into step beside Spock. 

Not seconds after their arrival, Jim has spotted them and enthusiastically waves them over. McCoy hesitates. Can’t wait to tell stories of all the tail he got the night before, no doubt. Spock is dubious for exactly the same reason. 

Of course, they are best friends. And as such are obligated to listen to the anecdotes. McCoy begins to make his way to the sizable table where the remainder of the bridge crew is waiting for them. He doesn’t get far. A large ferengi plows into his left side and he begins to teeter precariously on one foot before starting to fall. Lightning quick, Spock catches McCoy’s wrist and pulls him upright. 

“Hey jackass, I’m walking here!” McCoy bristles, scowling hard. 

Spock is still holding on, elegant fingers pressing firm and insistent into delicate flesh. While his face remains inscrutable, he stares at McCoy with a deadly mixture of shock and confusion. Seconds pass like hours. The horrifying realization of what has just transpired finally creeps over McCoy. The awareness pierces him, leaves him bared and exposed like a gaping wound and it’s far too late to jerk his arm back. Panic sets in and settles in the pit of his stomach.        

They stare at each other, unmoving. Everything else has fallen away as if they are the only two beings in existence.

There is no going back now. 

  
Spock knows  _ everything _ .


	4. The Big Come Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCoy finds a moment of reprieve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keeping up with the theme, this chapter was inspired by The Big Come Down by Nine Inch Nails

It started off slowly. Just a gentle wave of awareness that wasn't quite his own subtly pushing against the boundaries of his mind. McCoy wouldn't have even noticed what was happening if it weren't for the steady press of fingers leaving imprints on his flesh. 

 

Now in the quiet and relative safety of his hotel room is he free to think over how he was so intimately  _ violated _ . Every thought, every feeling taken from him against his will. He was so defenceless against the consciousness ebbing gently into his. Unthreatening but probing, deeper and deeper. In a flurry of panic McCoy had jerked his wrist towards him to sever the connection. It took every ounce of control in his body not to break out into an undignified run. 

 

_ There is a game I play. Try to make myself okay. _

 

McCoy sags against the door and slides down it, head swimming with the undue consequences that will no doubt come out of this. He rakes his fingers through his hair and wracks his brain for solutions to this problem, anything he can say to explain away the feelings that were stolen from him. Subconscious nostalgia from when Jocelyn used to touch him so fondly, perhaps. 

 

_ Try so hard to make the pieces all fit. Smash it apart, just for the fuck of it. _

 

There is a knock at the door. McCoy doesn't need to ask who it is. 

 

“Doctor, I wish to speak with you about a personal matter.” 

 

He pretends he isn't home. The seconds crawl by and McCoy holds his breath as he waits for the sound of receding footsteps. Finally, Spock gives up and takes his leave. McCoy exhales quietly and gets to his feet. He has to get out of there, lest he risk running into Spock around the hotel. 

 

_ Gotta get back to the bottom. The big come down, isn’t that what you wanted? _

 

In two minutes flat McCoy has escaped the premises  _ and _ managed to avoid his fellow officers in the process. Some omnipotent being must be smiling down on him right now. Pulling his jacket collar up around his neck, he traipses along the street looking for a place to waste his time. A few turns down shady side streets and he’s found a perfectly seedy looking bar. This kind of setting suits his tastes just fine. 

 

_ Find a place with the failed and forgotten. Isn’t that really what you wanted? _

 

With a quick look around, he opens the heavy wooden door just enough to let himself inside. Despite the early morning hour, the bar is unusually crowded. McCoy chalks that up to the thriving city life and finds himself a nice spot at the end of the counter. The multitude of alien species milling about the place, making it pulse like it too is alive, isn’t all that surprising. They’re all standing around in tight circles marveling at  _ something _ . McCoy gestures at the tap and holds his hand out expectantly. A frosty mug of beer is pressed to his palm and he turns around in his stool, leaning comfortably against the warped wooden fixture. He’s trying to see what the fuss is all about. Finally, a break in the bodies. 

 

_ There is no place I can go. There is no way I can hide. _

 

Shock is the first thing that registers in his mind. Orion girls are apparently the sole source of entertainment at this place. They’re dancing for the eager patrons, hips gyrating and arms moving in sync with the beat of the god awful synth music. Either the Federation turns a blind eye to this sort of display in order to generate income, or this is an underground under the table kind of business. 

 

He allows himself a brief moment to watch the show before his view is once again obstructed. 

 

_ It feels like it keeps coming from the inside. _

 

There is no sign of a timepiece anywhere on the walls, but McCoy figures he’s been there a few hours. He’s taking his sweet time with his beer, which his liver is grateful for. The headache brewing behind his eyes has subsided slightly, just enough for him to be able to think straight. Eventually he will have to return to the hotel. He will have to face Spock. And he will have to talk about his feelings. McCoy rubs a calloused hand over his face and stares off in the direction of the back wall as he laments. 

 

_ There is a hate that burns within. The most desperate place I have ever been. _

 

Night blankets the city as best it can with all of its piercing lights and lively inhabitants. By now McCoy is good and drunk and as long as the credits keep rolling into the pockets of the staff, his presence is otherwise entirely ignored. Or so he thought. Someone sidles up on the stool next to him. McCoy feels the brush of a knee against his leg and he lifts his head from his hand to confront the source of his disturbance. He comes face to face with one of the Orion girls. Her comically green complexion reminds him of Spock and he would scowl if he weren’t so distracted by the volume of her chest.    

 

_ Try to get back to where I’m from. _

 

“Hey handsome,” she says with a sly leer. Even her voice is like sex, McCoy muses. No wonder this sleazy back-alley joint is so popular. He thinks it best not to dignify her with a response, but she isn’t keen on throwing back her catch. “Didn’t know you Starfleet types ventured into these kinds of haunts.” With each word she’s leaning more and more heavily into his space. McCoy is just the right amount of inebriated to let her.  

 

_ The closer I get, the worse that it becomes. _

 

“How do you know I’m Starfleet?” He isn’t wearing his science blues and the black tee and worn jeans are hardly enough to pin him to the academy, let alone a starship. 

 

She leans in close enough that her hair is brushing his cheek. “You’ve got that stargazer look about you. That all rugged, no nonsense kind of explorer type.” The Orion breathes the words against McCoy’s lips and he inhales, taking in the scent of her perfume. Everything about her is reeling him in, like he’s in a trance and the only thing he needs in the universe is right there in front of him. “And you look like you’ve seen a lot. Experienced a lot. Haven’t you, honey.”

 

_ The closer I get, the worse that it becomes.  _

 

No man in their right mind, sexual orientations aside, could possibly resist such a tantalizing species. Like living sirens fully intent on reeling in prey and eating them alive. McCoy is one such man. She drapes her arms around his neck and he’s thinking about the detrimental, drug like effects of Orion hormones. 

 

Just as their lips are about to meet, the door slams so hard it teeters uselessly on its hinges as it collides firmly with the wall. 

 

_ There is no place I can go.   _

 

Every head turns to the open doorway where a seething Vulcan is looming dangerously. 

 

_ There is no place I can hide. _

 

He takes a few measured steps towards McCoy and his ladyfriend. “Unhand him immediately.” Spock’s voice is dripping with venom, leaking poison right into the Orion girl who looks petrified with fear. 

 

_ It feels like it keeps coming from the inside. _

 

“Spock, what the hell are you doing here?” McCoy bristles with the trepidation of being caught and cornered in such a compromising position. Getting angry is all he can do.

 

Those dark eyes are settled on  _ him  _ now and they are positively  _ smoldering _ . McCoy gets caught in the gaze and finds himself unable to move. He sees things hiding there that he thought he never would. Anger, concern,  _ jealousy _ .

 

Before McCoy can even register what is happening, Spock grabs him by the arm in an implacable grip and forcefully tugs him from the stool. McCoy struggles against it once his limbs start to work again but Spock is not to be deterred. He drags the doctor down the street like a weightless ragdoll until they reach the lobby of the hotel.

  
McCoy has never sobered up quite so fast.


	5. Liberation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All the cards get laid out on the table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken me so long to post an update. There will be gratuitous smut in the next installment!

“What the hell was that about? Are you out of your damn mind? You could’ve hurt somebody kicking the door in like that! Hey Pointy, I’m talkin’ to you!” McCoy’s incredulity falls on deaf ears. Spock drags his captive into the lift and up three floors until they’ve reached his room. He slides the key card through the reader while McCoy ineffectually struggles against the iron grip. The second they enter the room Spock curls his fingers around McCoy’s shoulders and holds him against the door with an anchored press. The vehement gaze pierces every barrier McCoy has and takes him apart little by little with each passing second.

 

Suddenly Spock shrinks back and turns towards the bed. His shoulders are shaking with the exertion it takes to check his rampant desires at the door and leave them there. “I apologize. My behavior has been most… unbecoming.” McCoy gapes wordlessly at Spock’s back, mind stumbling over the implications of this capricious outburst. “Leonard, I… I have not been myself as of late. I will not keep you here. You are free to leave.”

 

“Oh no, no you don’t you green-blooded bastard. You dragged me all the way back here and I demand to know just what your problem is.” McCoy, who had not moved from his spot against the door, chooses this moment to venture closure to the Vulcan with mounting anger.

 

“Leonard, please. I do not trust myself.”

 

Against his better judgement, McCoy steels himself and grabs Spock’s arm. The rush of blood pounding in his ears drowns out the sound of his labored heartbeat. “Now wait just a minute. I’m not going anywhere. I want to know what crawled up your ass and you’re going to tell me.”

 

In a split second McCoy is greeted with the scenic view of the ceiling and just as he’s about to attempt piecing together what the hell just happened, the bed dips and Spock is looming over him with a predatory stare. “You are so  _ distracting _ .” Spock grips McCoy’s wrists in one hand and presses them into the newly wrinkled comforter. “You are in my mind all the time. I cannot focus, nor can I think. I had hoped to have a rational conversation with you but, as usual, you did not allow me the chance.” 

 

McCoy nearly chokes on a breath as Spock slides his unoccupied hand over his heated cheek. “When we touched you bombarded me with such overwhelming emotion that I lacked the ability to process it at that time. You ran from me before I was able to understand it.” Long fingers trace McCoy’s jaw and dip under his chin. McCoy tilts his head back and marvels at the way Spock seems to be eating him alive with his eyes. This is everything he’s ever wanted. “I returned to my room to meditate on what I had learned, but I could not even do that. You invaded my thoughts so persistently I found myself fighting with a strong desire to be with you. I decided to placate it. You were quite easy to find. And when I saw you with that woman, I could not...” 

 

The grip on his jaw tightens just a fraction and Spock leans ever downward. “You make me feel so…  _ human _ . I find it as fascinating as I do maddening. Even in your absence you still manage to unsettle me. I am increasingly overcome with a desire I cannot control. I want you. Every part of you. You mind, your body.” 

 

Spock is so close that every exhale raises goosebumps across McCoy’s skin.  

 

“Leonard. I want to make myself  _ perfectly  _ clear. I share your feelings. You need not hide them from me.” Spock hisses every word into his ear, clear as day and slow as molasses. McCoy inhales sharply and wrestles against his bond with renewed vigor. He needs to know this is real, isn’t sure he can believe his ears or his eyes. With some reluctance, Spock relinquishes his hold and hesitates for a beat before sitting back on his haunches. He looks forlorn, defeated.  

 

As soon as he’s free, McCoy props himself up with one arm and wraps the other around Spock’s neck. He revels in the flicker of shock that flits across Spock’s face before using the leverage to bring their mouths together. Spock allowed himself to be swept up in the foreign sensation and McCoy simply straps in for the ride. 

 

What started as a tentative sweep of lips quickly turns into a methodical scrutiny of teeth and tongues. McCoy is memorizing the taste of Spock in his mouth, the feel of silken bangs between his fingers, the insistent press of a solid body against his. Over the course of their languid exploration, McCoy’s lip catches on the pointed tip of Spock’s incisor and he lets out a quiet moan. The noise fuels the passion burning in Spock’s belly. Encouraged, he repeats the action and eagerly swallows the delicious noises that follow. 

 

The overwhelming need to breathe consumes them and they have no choice but to break apart. McCoy looks up dazedly at the man hovering over him, marveling at the disheveled state of once perfect bangs that he all too happily raked his fingers through. Spock is looking down at him, utterly debauched with lust blown pupils and an unmistakable  _ want _ . 

 

He never thought he’d live long enough to witness a Vulcan succumb to such sybaritic desires, much less be the cause of it. The sheer irony of the situation does not escape him. McCoy shudders as laughter bubbles up in his throat and he wonders how he could’ve been so oblivious. 

 

“You are the most... infuriating, indecipherable, unbearable man I have ever known.” McCoy tips his head forward to rest on Spock’s shoulder. 

 

“And you are the most arrantly fallacious, cantankerous, belligerent person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting.” Lambent amusement and affection radiate from Spock as he settles his hands on McCoy’s hips and squeezes reassuringly. 

 

“Well aren’t you sweet as maple syrup on a pancake Sunday.” McCoy can almost hear the eyebrow being raised in his direction. 

 

“I do not understand what the day of the week has to do with the sweetness of the condiment.” McCoy groans exasperatedly and lifts his head up.

  
“Just shut up and kiss me.”  


	6. New Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The waiting finally pays off.

“I already said it’s okay. I want you to.”

 

Spock is staring at his own hands frozen halfway into their tentative downward descent to McCoy’s newly bared chest. He has long since made the decision to release his desires which were so carefully tucked away no more than an hour ago. Now that he has given himself over to the hedonistic urges for the first time he is unsure how to act on them. A calloused hand on his wrist brings him out of his head. 

 

“You’re thinking too hard about it. Just follow your instincts.” McCoy presses Spock’s palm to his pectoral and stares up at him expectantly. The gentle nudge seems to be exactly what Spock needs. 

 

Gentle hands smooth over every muscle, take their time tracing over every scar, every bone. McCoy twitches at the feather-light caresses, inhaling sharply as goosebumps raise over the expanse of flesh. Intrigued, Spock presses more firmly. Short manicured nails bite gently into delicate skin, eliciting the most alluring noise. Spock catalogues the reactions to different stimuli, fully determined to add to his repertoire. He sets his sights next on a very tempting nipple. A curious thumb pads carefully over the tip and it hardens obediently for him. Spock glances upward for affirmation and finds that McCoy has squeezed his eyes shut and taken his bottom lip between his teeth to discourage any further sounds from escaping. Accepting the challenge, Spock pinches the erect nub and tugs. Against his will, McCoy releases a low moan and arches firmly into the touch.    

Spock inclines his head pensively and looks up in time to catch McCoy's eyes shoot open. They gaze at each other for several long seconds. McCoy looks horrified, face burning hotter than the Vulcan sun. Spock wants nothing more than to consume his embarrassment. He licks a long, hot stripe over McCoy's cheek and chases the rapidly reddening tint as it spreads over his jaw and down his neck. The slick sheen he leaves in his wake only adds to the beauty of McCoy's debauched state. Every swipe of his tongue earns him a delicious gasp. Spock continues his downward descent, laving attention to every inch of flesh on his way. When he gets to the sharp jut of a sculpted hip Spock can't resist raking his teeth over it. McCoy emits a strangled whimper and cants his hips upward to press insistently into Spock's cheek. Just as Spock's fingers venture forward to pull at the McCoy's jeans, his movements are halted.

 

“Wait, wait. We should go to my room. I doubt you have any usable lubricant or a box of condoms laying around in here.” 

 

“A correct assumption.” 

 

McCoy wills his muscles to start working and reluctantly pushes himself into a sitting position before sliding off the bed. “Well if we're gonna do this we're gonna do it right. Try to keep that thing in your pants long enough to make it down the hallway.” 

 

Realizing that McCoy was referring to the sizable erection tenting his slacks, Spock flushes a rather enticing shade of green and averts his gaze shamefully. “I will endeavor to control myself.”

 

“I can't make the same promise so hurry it up.” 

 

When they exit the room Spock can't find it within himself to keep his hands at bay. The thought of even a second of no contact is agonizingly unbearable. He slides his hands over McCoy's back, down his shoulders, over his arms, anything he can get his insatiable hands on. The short moment of rest between their respective dwellings fuels the fire in the pit of Spock's stomach. As soon as the door closes he's seeking McCoy's mouth, a target that is mercifully within reach. Their kiss turns into a hungry fight for dominance, one McCoy knows full well he has no hopes of winning. The backs of his knees hit the bed and he falls back with a grunt. Spock eases forward and settles between the legs spread out for him. 

 

“Want to touch you too. Take off your shirt.” McCoy means it as a demand but it comes out as a plea. Spock obliges, shucking the garment and setting it carefully aside. McCoy marvels at the gorgeous work of art on display for him like he's seeing it for the first time. Of course, as the attending physician, McCoy has seen Spock fully nude countless times. It had been all business and stolen glances. But now he's free to indulge in the primal urges he's always fantasized about. He can taste and touch and  _ stare _ . A tentative but confident hand reaches out to comb through the patch of course hair that mottles Spock's chest. He searches out every muscle, traces every scar with the pad of a thumb and remembers how he knit the flesh back together himself. Spock watches quietly for a moment and then his hands are moving again. He pulls at the button of McCoy's jeans and deftly tugs the zipper down. McCoy skims his fingers down Spock's torso to accomplish the same task. They help each other shed the remainder of their clothing with mounting urgency. 

 

McCoy's eyes widen with trepidation as they settle on Spock's cock, long and thick and all kinds of intimidating. It had been quite a while since McCoy was on the business end of something so large, but he's not a quitter. Spock's eyes are fixed hungrily on McCoy's, sizing it up like there's nothing he wants more. The intensity of the stare makes McCoy squirm. 

 

“Touch it,” he urges and Spock obeys, wrapping thin fingers around the pulsing shaft. McCoy steels himself and returns the favor, earning him an undignified grunt at the foreign contact. The heated flesh feels good in his hands, truly something to be marveled at. Spock drags his hand upward until the head is nestled beneath his chilled palm. 

 

“Don't have to be so gentle. Squeeze harder.” McCoy demonstrates and Spock follows suit. “Ah, that's good. That's really good.” The red tinge never fades from his cheeks. 

 

Spock is sporting a vivid green hue on his own face but all he can think about is being wrapped up in the man who had so effortlessly disassembled him. 

 

“Leonard. I do not know how much longer I can wait.” As he withdraws his hand McCoy keens in protest. Spock takes a breath and sets his hands on McCoy's hips. “It has been so long already. I want to have you.” 

 

The admonition is equal parts endearing and embarrassing. McCoy lifts an arm to cover his face. “Never would've taken you for the romantic type.” Spock takes each hand in his and joins their index and middle fingers. McCoy startles at the electricity that sparks between their fingers. “What is that?” 

 

“This is a Vulcan kiss.” 

 

McCoy loses himself in the sensation, heart swelling so fully he thinks it might burst. “In my bag. Left front pocket.” Spock moves to retrieve the small bottle waiting for him there while McCoy props a pillow beneath his hips and gets himself comfortable. “Use a lot.”

 

With a short nod, Spock applies a liberal amount of the slick to his fingers. He's nervous, as much as a Vulcan can be. McCoy presses a reassuring hand to Spock's shoulder and squeezes. “Hey. I want this, okay? You're not the only one who's has his head up his ass.” He ignores the way Spock's brows pull together in confusion. “Just, ah… it's been a while for me. Just go slow.” 

 

Encouraged, Spock finds the furrowed hole with ease and carefully presses in his middle finger. It sinks in to the first knuckle and Spock shudders hard. The tight, wet heat enveloping the sensitive digit is overwhelming. He pulls back and presses forward again, spurred on by the sweet sounds McCoy is making. 

 

After a few short thrusts McCoy breathes, “Give me another.” A second finger slides in alongside the first and it is taking every ounce of control Spock has to go slow. He scissors his way into the tight passage, gently massaging the walls until the muscles slacken enough to work in a third digit. McCoy is a mess, writhing and pushing back into the touch like he can't get enough. 

 

“It's fine, that's enough. I'm ready. Use more lube and go in a little at a time.” Spock breathes a sigh of relief at the consent and slicks up his painfully hard cock, positioning himself between McCoy's widespread thighs. McCoy holds his breath as the blunt head breaches him. 

 

Little by little he is spread open wider than his muscles can go. The burn of the overstretched walls only adds to McCoy's pleasure. He always did like a little pain with his sex. “Goddamn it, Spock.” A hard shudder wracks his spine as another inch of searing flesh enters him and he's not sure how much more he can take. 

 

Finally Spock is nestled fully inside. The persistent squeeze is almost too much for him to bear. Half way inside he pressed his forehead to McCoy's chest and tried to calm himself, to no avail. Now he is shuddering, fingers pressing bruises into pale hips as he fights with himself to rein in his orgasm. 

 

They remain still, simply basking in the pleasure of each other's bodies and the foreign sensations. McCoy is the first to move. He presses back into Spock's hips and urges, “Move. It feels good, I want more.” 

 

Spock obliges him with a tentative thrust. McCoy jerks and grips the sheets beneath him. “Come on, give it to me already. I'm not gonna break.” A second, much harder thrust jostles McCoy and he tips his head back and moans so pretty. Something deep inside of Spock, the last desperate shred of control keeping his animalistic urges in check, finally snaps. He loses himself in the feeling of McCoy beneath him, enveloping him, digging into his skin and sinking further and further inside. A ragged breath is the only warning McCoy gets.

 

Pale hips are moving of their own accord, Spock’s body running purely on a deep ancient instinct and McCoy is loving every second of it. A steady stream of pleasured noises is running from his kiss swollen lips like an endless river that Spock is all too happy to drown in. Spock touches every part of McCoy that his hands can reach while his mouth is sucking lingering kisses into the column of his exposed neck and down to his collarbone. 

 

Their desperate lovemaking reaches its long awaited crescendo and McCoy is the first to be overcome by the emotion of it. Every muscle is pulled taut as he reaches his end. Short nails bite possessively into Spock’s shoulder as McCoy arches his back and shouts his release. A euphoric mix of ecstasy and and adoration floods into the forefront of Spock’s mind and that’s all it takes for him to still and empty his passion into the willing body beneath him. McCoy eagerly accepts everything his newfound lover has to offer. The sound of labored panting that fills the room is music to their ears. 

 

McCoy grunts in protest as Spock removes himself, not quite willing to let go of the feeling of their joining. The disappointment only lasts a short moment. Spock rolls onto his side and wraps his arms protectively around McCoy’s waist and presses soothing kisses to the marks he left behind. McCoy sighs contentedly and basks in the afterglow. 

 

“Been a coon’s age since I’ve had a lay like that. You sure know how to go hog wild when you want to.” His southern drawl is thick with approval. Spock simply stares uncomprehendingly at the colloquialisms and McCoy laughs good naturedly. 

 

“Suppose we’re gonna have to tell Jim. He’ll have a real axe to grind if he catches wind of it.”

 

“I agree that ‘coming clean’ is our best option. But perhaps we can wait for a more opportune moment. The Captain is undoubtedly quite preoccupied with the logistics of the diplomatic meetings at present.” McCoy hums in assent and drops his head on Spock’s shoulder.

 

“Right you are. Don’t suppose you’d be up for a little sleep over, then?” He tries not to sound hopeful but the blush on his face betrays him. 

 

“I am amenable.”

 

They fall into a comfortable silence. McCoy is revelling in the feeling of being wrapped up in Spock from all sides. Every inhale brings the pleasurable scent of Spock and sex and he savors it even though he knows this won’t be the last time. 

 

“Hey. Show me that thing again,” McCoy interrupts the peacefulness and turns on his side to face his lover. 

 

Spock raises two fingers and McCoy presses his own to them. The surge of electricity is stronger now. It takes McCoy’s breath away.

 

“That’s really something.”

 

Through the simple touch, McCoy can feel all of the emotion inside of Spock. Everything he has kept inside since the day they met on the bridge. Every stolen glance, every lingering touch, every hidden smile. 

  
McCoy knows that he is loved more than he ever has been in his life, and Spock doesn’t have to say a word.  


	7. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shameless smut. Totally pwp for no reason other than the fact that these idiots will fight in any setting and it brings me such joy.

“Leonard, this is a closet.”

 

“Yes, how very observant of you. Now get in and drop your pants.”

 

It had been precisely two months, one week, and four days since that night at the hotel. As expected, Jim took the news in stride and was quite pleased to learn that his two most stuck up officers were finally getting along. The couple felt both relieved and liberated that they no longer had to tiptoe around the crew and limit their public interaction to a purely professional basis. Now that everything was out in the open, things were going quite well. Except for the fact that they had very little free time since coming back aboard the Enterprise. McCoy looked for any and every reason to get a little loving during the day. A man has needs, after all. 

 

“I assumed you had commed me because you were in need of my expertise on a professional matter.” Spock is staring dubiously at the bulkhead McCoy had opened for him and refusing to enter it. He stands stiffly, stubbornly, all business with hands clasped behind his back.

 

“Why, you silly hobgoblin. I would never abuse my power as CMO to engage in personal trysts, if that's what you're insinuating.” McCoy feigns offense and crosses his arms over his chest. “My reasons are purely medical. I was merely hoping to test your libido so I could update your chart. Got a problem with that?”

 

“In fact, I have several,” Spock deadpans before turning away to return to his bridge duties. McCoy grabs his arm and before he can get far. 

 

“Oh don't be like that. Just a quicky, then back to work. Five minutes tops.” For a moment Spock actually seems to be considering the proposition, but he begins to pull out of his lovers grasp nonetheless. “Come on, you can't be  _ that  _ busy.” McCoy would be offended if not for the mischievous glint in Spock's eyes.

 

“You have not yet convinced me.” Damn but that man could be a tease. A lecherous grin spreads over McCoy's face and he learns much too close to a pointed ear for the conversation to be purely professional. 

 

“I'm all prepped and ready to go. Spent my scheduled break spreading my hole nice and wide for your big cock. Don't you want to throw me up against the wall and shove it in me? It'll feel so nice…” His voice is a sultry purr, thick and sweet as honey. McCoy urges Spock back towards the utility closet, pleased to see the faint green tinge coloring his ears. Spock goes willingly, standing at the ready in the darkness as the door slides shut behind them. 

 

“You don't even have to do anything,” McCoy continues as he works at the fasteners of Spock's slacks. “I know how you feel about lookin' prim and proper on the bridge. So you just get it out for me and I'll ride it good and hard, just the way you like it.” 

 

“I believe this was your plan. You will get it out yourself,” Spock interjects and seats himself on a nearby storage crate. It takes up a good majority of the space in the cramped room but it'll serve their purpose just fine. He spreads his knees pointedly and settles back into the wall. 

 

McCoy whistles lowly and shimmies out of his pants. “My, aren't you sassy today. Fine, then. I don't mind doing the work once in a while.” He sinks to his knees as low as he's able and pulls Spock's half hard cock out from the confines of his briefs. “You act like you don't want it on duty but I know you better than you do. I know you'd jump at the chance to have a go at my ass no matter where we are.” 

 

“Perhaps you should put your mouth to better use. Your terms gave a five minute maximum. You are wasting time.” Spock talks a big game but McCoy knows better than that, knows Spock's just as eager as he is. 

 

He gets right to work, sinking his mouth over every inch of rapidly hardening flesh. Spock likes this part the most. He closes his eyes and just focuses on the wonderful sensation of McCoy's tongue laving attention to all the right places. McCoy, he likes the stretch of his lips and the burn in his throat from the massive cock rubbing him raw from the inside out. Spock can feel every moan, every contracting muscle, loves the suction pulling him in and the sensation of his head hitting the back of a warm throat.  

 

Once the organ is sufficiently slicked, McCoy wastes no time getting into Spock's lap. His bare knees are digging painfully into the edges of the crate he's precariously balancing on but he's fairly sure Spock won't let him fall. 

 

“Three minutes and forty seven seconds,” Spock comments helpfully. McCoy snorts in reply. Not ideal, but he's done it in less time than that if he really gets himself going. He's been ready for this for hours and he's certainly prepared to meet that challenge.

 

“If you shut your trap and help me I won't need that long,” McCoy snarks and he can feel Spock smirking into the hollow of his neck. He wants to wipe that smug look right off that handsome face so McCoy chooses that moment to grab the base of Spock's cock and sinks himself right onto it. It's his turn to smirk when he feels Spock stiffen and stifle a grunt in his shoulder. 

 

Spock jerks his hips upward and McCoy gets the hint, setting a hard and fast pace. He remembers they're fucking in a closet of a sparsely used corridor but the creeping realization that they could get caught forces him to bite his lip to stop the noises he wants to make. It also makes him impossibly fucking  _ horny _ and speeds him ever closer to the precipice of orgasm. Apparently Spock is feeling much the same way, if the way he's sinking his teeth into McCoy's shoulder is any indication. 

 

There isn't much time left. Less than two minutes by McCoy's calculations, not that he's in a position to do any sort of math, basic or otherwise. He feels Spock's wandering hands travel down his spine to squeeze the tantalizing swell of his ass. Their movements become more frantic by the second. Every time McCoy drops down, Spock canters his hips to meet him halfway. When they kiss it feels like Spock is breathing the air right from McCoy's lungs. 

 

Just seconds left, now. One hard upward thrust and McCoy knows he won't last much longer. Molten heat pools at the base of his spine and he lets out a ragged moan that goes right to Spock's cock. Sensing the imminent release, one of Spock's hands moves around to cup the head of McCoy's leaking erection. The smooth and sensitive palm grazing his cock is the last nudge McCoy needs to tip over the edge. He comes hard, every muscle convulsing with the force of his orgasm. The pleasure explodes like fireworks in the blackness behind Spock's eyelids and melts him from the inside out. He grunts his release and nuzzles into McCoy's hair, breathing him in and drowning in the essence of the man he loves. 

 

For a moment they are content to enjoy the afterglow. Spock wipes his hand on the underside of McCoy's uniform shirt which earns him a less than satisfied glare that they both know has no real heat to it. Finally McCoy resolves to get up from his perch and redress. Spock tucks himself back into his pants and tidies his uniform. Once they look presentable they exit the closet. 

 

Spock holds out his hand and though his face looks impassive he's smiling with his eyes. McCoy presses his fingers to the two upturned to him. 

 

“As you were, Mister Spock.” 

 

“Doctor.” 

 

They exchange another lingering kiss, human this time, and part ways.


End file.
